


gold rush

by mardia



Category: The Will Darling Adventures - K.J. Charles
Genre: Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: After Phoebe and Maisie go out for a night on the town, they have a chat the morning after.  (Set in some vague point between Slippery Creatures and The Sugared Game.)
Relationships: Maisie Jones & Phoebe Stephens-Prince
Comments: 21
Kudos: 47
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	gold rush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astudyinfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinfic/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, astudyinfic! I was very excited to pick up this pinch-hit, as I've been wanting to write a Maisie-and-Phoebe story since reading the Sugared Game and being delighted by their friendship (and hopefully future relationship?) Hope you enjoy!

Maisie woke up in the morning with a dull pounding ache at her temples, a dry mouth, and in a strange bedroom she couldn’t remember seeing before. 

That was rather an alarming way to start the day, but as she blearily rubbed at her face, the memories of the night before came to her at last; going out with Phoebe for a night on the town at Phoebe’s urging--

\--Phoebe taking her to one of the new spots in town, dancing and drinking together, and running into some of Phoebe’s Bright Young Friends, exactly the same people that Maisie read about in the newspapers and magazines--

\--more dancing and drink, a ride in a automobile that Maisie could only remember in bits and pieces, and finally stumbling up to Phoebe’s lovely home as the sun was just beginning to rise up.

Maisie lay very still in what was likely the softest bed she’d ever slept in in her life, as a bewildering kaleidoscope of glamorous and chaotic memories flitted through her aching mind, and breathed out, “Oh, _my._ ”

Eventually she found her way to the dining room, where Phoebe was lounging in a silk robe with feathers the exact color of her eyes (the feathers were dyed to match) with a lit cigarette and a cup and saucer out in front of her, looking far more put together than any human had a right to be, after the night they’d had (and the alcohol they’d drunk) but somehow Maisie couldn’t grudge her it. That was the magic of being Phoebe Stephens-Prince, she’d found--Phoebe was somehow so wonderful that you _couldn’t_ be jealous of her. 

“Darling!” Phoebe said, lighting up as soon as she caught sight of Maisie. “Come here and have some libations, I’ll ring for more coffee and toast.”

Maisie, conscious of the way her borrowed robe and nightgown stretched tight over her breasts, held the robe together a little more tightly as she sat down across from Phoebe, and in what felt like the blink of an eye, a maid was gently placing a cup of coffee and a plateful of toast in front of her, all laid out on china that cost more than Maisie’s yearly salary. 

“Drink up, Maisie,” Phoebe urged. “Or, no, would you prefer hair of the dog instead? I can have Cook whip up a hangover cure if you need one, there’s a recipe that Bubby Fanshawe swears by--”

Maisie couldn’t help but giggle, even as her head was starting to ache again, “Oh no, Phoebe, this is lovely.” She set action to word and tucked in, and the coffee and toast did help after a moment or two. 

Biting into her second slice of toast (this one slathered with jam) Maisie took a moment to realize what was wrong; it was the silence. 

Maisie looked up and Phoebe was looking at her consideringly, smoke from her still-lit cigarette wafting around her head. “Phoebe?”

Phoebe blinked and came back to herself. “Oh, darling, never mind me, I’m off gathering the wool. Do you mind if--” Phoebe checked herself, which was alarming, and then continued carefully, “I mean to say, I noticed you were doing something, erm, rather different with your voice last night--”

Maisie felt her cheeks go hot, remembering how last night, the very second she was faced with meeting Phoebe’s fast set, she’d immediately flipped into the cut-glass English accent she mostly used on herself in the mirror, or for the girls in the shop for a laugh. “Oh, yes, that.”

“And obviously you can do anything you please, Maisie dear, but I _do_ admit it was very startling to go from your lovely Welsh tones to hearing you sound as though you were trained by the strictest elocutionist in England.”

“Was it _very_ obvious?” Maisie asked, abashed. 

Phoebe blinked at her. “Good heavens, no!” she said, emphatic. “If I hadn’t already known you I shouldn’t have spotted it at all.” Maisie sat back in her seat a little more, pleased to hear it. She’d always known she was good at voices and accents, but it wouldn’t have been nice at all, to find out she was making a fool of herself. 

“Oh, that’s good then,” she said, and Phoebe gave her a blank look. 

“What I meant to say is,” Phoebe said, still in that careful voice--not wanting to give offense, Maisie realized at last, and felt faintly astonished--to think the Honourable Phoebe Stephens-Prince would care about causing plain Maisie Jones offense! “I hope you didn’t think that it was _required_ of you to use a different accent, just because we ran into some of my crowd. Or that I’d have tolerated any nonsense from anyone being rude about you.”

“Oh, Phoebe,” Maisie breathed out. 

“Well, I wouldn’t!” Phoebe insisted, fired up, her lovely face full of determination. “I should rather hope I’d have the decency to stand up for a pal, good Lord.”

“I know you would,” Maisie said, automatically, although the honest truth was that you couldn’t know that about someone, not until the moment actually happened. She’d gone out dancing with Will several times and it wasn’t until he’d gotten fired for defending her that she’d actually given him her trust. “Well, I...I suppose I hoped you would, but I didn’t want...well, I didn’t want to be wrong, and spoil the evening.” She swallowed and offered up a smile she hoped didn’t look as weak as it felt, and explained, “I’ve been wrong before, you see, about people.”

Phoebe looked stricken. “Does that happen a lot? Even here in London?”

“Oh, it’s easier here in London, but it’s not always guaranteed--have I told you how Will and I became friends, real friends?” Phoebe shook her head, eyes wide, and Maisie sketched out their past history in a few brisk words, feeling comforted by Phoebe’s hissed exclamations of horror. “So there’s always _that_ nonsense, which I suppose most women have to deal with, but with my colour--” Maisie stopped, and swallowed again. “I can’t control how people react to that, and I suppose...I suppose it was easier to change my voice, rather than open my mouth and have something _else_ about me found objectionable as well.”

“Oh good heavens, I’m a fool,” Phoebe said, immediately reaching her arm out across the table to take Maisie’s hand. “I hadn’t thought--but of _course_ you’d be worried, particularly after everything that’s happened!”

Maisie took her outstretched hand, feeling rather foolish but also wanting the comfort. Phoebe’s hand was soft and warm in hers, no calluses or rough spots to be found. “It’s not as awful as that,” she had to say. “I like myself just fine, and I know my real friends do as well, it’s just that I didn’t want our evening out to be ruined by someone else’s foolishness.”

“Oh, I’d have made sure their night was ruined too, trust me,” Phoebe said, with a martial gleam in her eye that reminded Maisie, oddly enough, of Will when he was in an especially stubborn mood. 

Maisie laughed at that. “Well, that’s good to know,” she said, and meant it. You couldn’t rely on something until it happened, Maisie had learned that bitter lesson well enough, but it still meant something to have Phoebe listen, and offer her support. 

“But whatever you’d like to do in the future, of course, whether that’s pretend to be English or being Welsh, or turning American or Italian or Russian--”

Maisie couldn’t help it, she let out a gurgle of incredulous laughter. “ _Russian_?”

Phoebe gave her a mischievous glance, and said, “Now don’t tell me you couldn’t pretend to be a lost Russian princess if you put your mind to it, because I am firmly convinced you could.”

Maisie paused, but they actually did have a Russian emigre as one of their patrons in the shop, so after a moment, she waved a hand and said, in flawless imitation of Mrs. Tarasova’s deeply accented English, “But of _course_ it is possible, darling, even in such a small country as this.”

Phoebe let out a peal of laughter, looking as delighted as a child presented with a magic trick. “ _Maisie_! Perfection! Absolute perfection, I don’t know how you do it.”

And it was funny--even in borrowed clothes and bare feet--Maisie actually felt rather perfect, and marvelous, all because Phoebe said so, and so clearly meant it when she did. 

But that was, Maisie was coming to realize, the sort of magic trick that Phoebe Stephens-Price could manage. If she thought you were wonderful, you felt wonderful. 

“And now,” Phoebe said, taking another sip of her own coffee, “we simply _must_ have a coze over last night, I’ve been dying to talk over the fashions with you all morning--”

This was a conversation Maisie was more than willing to have, and as they chatted eagerly about patterns and cuts and the latest styles, Maisie sipped at her coffee and thought to herself that yes, this was lovely--but it was nice to know that they could have other conversations too, when they had to. 

Phoebe tilted her head and asked, “Now what has that smile on your face, because I know the memory of Alfie’s hideous suit and tie isn’t causing it.”

“Nothing,” Maisie said automatically, then reconsidered. “It’s just...I’m so glad that Will introduced us to each other.”

Phoebe’s answering smile was radiant. “Darling, so am I.”

And even if Maisie was slow to trust, generally...this, she felt, was still something she could rely on.


End file.
